


The Butcher of the Backwoods

by SunflowerSupreme



Series: Witcher (Show) [6]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Jaskier is my fav that's why I torture him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 03:56:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22009609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerSupreme/pseuds/SunflowerSupreme
Summary: Jaskier won’t stop hiding his sausage in the wrong royal pantries.Someone decides to take revenge.[Geraskier Week: Day Three Protection]
Series: Witcher (Show) [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624300
Comments: 53
Kudos: 444





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This happens during one of Geralt and Jaskier’s “I’m not Talking to You” Phases, because, let’s be real, they probably have those a lot.

He’d been planning to spend the evening in an inn, but before he’d entered the inn a familiar singing voice had echoed out and he’d turned, riding back into the woods, planning to return to an abandoned house he had passed. 

It wouldn’t be as warm as the inn, but it wouldn’t involve another argument (or having to apologize, which he only did when he absolutely had to). Not to mention, it would add _having to sleep outside in order to avoid you_ , to his list of mostly made up grievances against Jaskier. 

Roach’s ears pricked and she snorted, tossing her head in distress. Geralt rubbed her neck. She was far too intelligent to spook over nothing, so he cast his eyes around him, frowning.

The woods were still and quiet.

Too quiet.

He was reaching for his sword before he heard the first scream.

He spurred Roach into a canter, driving her toward the sound. As he got closer, the sounds morphed into words, “Please!” the man screamed. “Please, oh gods-”

Then the words stopped, once again becoming a long shrill wail. Then nothing.

Roach burst through the tree line into the circle of firelight. There was a group of men in the clearing, laughing, jeering, and drunk. In the center of them, besides the fire, was the screamer. Two of the men had been holding him - one in front and one behind - but as Geralt appeared, they dropped him and he fell to the ground, still.

He reined in Roach, drawing her to a halt, her sides heaving from their mad dash.

Geralt told himself he didn’t have a heart, but even he couldn’t deny the pang that went through his chest at the familiar face that peered up at him, dazed, in pain, but still familiar.

**Jaskier.**

A rope cut into his cheeks where they’d gagged him to stop the screams. The smell of blood was in the air, and his face was contorted. _An injury_ , Geralt thought, _Where’s the damn wound?_ But it was too dark, and Jaskier was slumped on the ground, hiding whatever had happened. When the bard saw him, relief flooded his face.

Suddenly, Geralt wanted the men dead. But he swallowed, reminded himself that he was not going to become the _Butcher of the Backwoods_ , and calmly said, “Evening,” Jaskier sobbed and hung his head as Geralt dismounted.

“What’s all this?” he asked, waving to the clearing.

“We was teaching this one a lesson!” shouted the man closest to Geralt, waving what appeared to be a sawn-off table leg. The end of it was stained with blood.

Geralt grit his teeth. “Interesting lesson.”

The wounded bard was shaking with sobs, his head hanging between his legs.

“What’s it ta you? ‘E a friend ‘o yours?”

“No,” Geralt lied. Jaskier looked up again, his eyes wide and pleading, face blotchy and streaked with tears. He thought Geralt was going to leave him.

Geralt wanted to shake some sense back into him, instead, he asked, “What’s he to you?”

The leader, the man who had spoken before, pulled a pair of tongs from the fire. “Caught ‘im in bed with me girl I did. So we’s removing the temptation once and fer all.”

Geralt’s jaw clenched. “You castrated him?” 

“Not yet,” the man drawled. “Thought ta’ gib him a taste of ‘is own medicine.”

“By singing terribly?” Geralt asked. He needed to keep them talking, give him time to size up the group, decide how best to fight. Or if he could - or should - simply grab Jaskier and make a run for it.

The man held out the bloodied table leg, and Geralt’s mind pieced together the puzzle a moment before he said, “Fuckin’ him.”

Geralt saw red.

He wasn’t certain if he punched the man or used Axii, but the one who’d been waving the table leg around went flying. He hit a tree with a crunch and fell to the ground.

Two of them fled. As tempting as it was to hunt them down, Geralt let them. Instead, he focused on the one who’d remained, grabbing his sword and swinging it.

The man’s head rolled away.

Geralt returned his sword to his scabbard and quickly knelt beside Jaskier. The bard was sobbing, his shoulders shaking, and as Geralt removed the gag, he sobbed, “Geralt. Geralt! Don’t leave me.”

“I just killed two men for you,” Geralt pointed out. "Why would I leave?" 

“They- they- oh gods-”

“Quiet,” he grumbled. “Crying won’t do you any good.” And what was he supposed to do with a sobbing bard, anyway? Of course, his scolding only upset Jaskier more and he pulled at his hair, moaning apologies.

He patted him on the back roughly. “You need a healer.”

“No- no- no-”

But Geralt was already on his feet, dragging Jaskier with him. His pants were bunched around his knees, and Geralt pulled them up for him, ignoring the way he tried to cover himself.

Then he grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him toward Roach.

The bard sobbed as he was pulled, and when he realized Geralt was trying to put him in the saddle, he screamed again. “No!”

Roach laid her ears back at the sound.

“You know him,” Geralt snapped to the mare. Then he glanced at the bard who was trying to pull away. “What?”

“No- not riding- ass hurts.”

_Oh. Right._

“We need to take you to town-”

“No!” Jaskier said, shaking. “That was the Ealdorman who ran away.” His voice was higher pitched than usual and strained. A clear sign of his pain. “They won’t-”

“Damn,” Geralt hissed. “The next town is a day’s ride. Does anyone there want to castrate you?”

“I’m _not_ riding,” Jaskier said again, his voice shaking. “Geralt-“

The Witcher scowled. “What am I supposed to do?” Geralt demanded. “Carry you!?” He would if that was what it took, but he’d prefer not to.

“I don’t know,” Jaskier sobbed. “I- I-”

“Quiet,” Geralt said, leaning the bard on a tree. “Let me think.”

He scowled and ran his eyes over Roach, digging in his saddlebags for a moment, transferring a few things to his pockets. Then he swung into the saddle.

“No!” Jaskier sobbed. Fresh tears streamed down his cheeks. “Don’t leave me-”

“I’m not-”

“I’ll pay you-”

“You don’t have any money-”

“My lute-” He gestured back toward the fire, where the instrument was surprisingly still intact.

“What am I supposed to do with a lute? Annoy monsters to death? Hit them over the head?” Without thinking he jumped from the saddle again, grabbing the lute and strapping it to the bags. Jaskier watched him the entire time, using Roach’s neck to hold himself on his feet.

“You can sit sideways. I won’t let you fall.”

“That could work.”

Geralt mounted then pulled his companion into the saddle, trying to ignore his yelps and gasps of pain. “Please-“

If he were a different person, he might have shushed him gently, promised it would be fine. Instead, he snapped, “Hush.” He was having a hard time figuring the best way to balance the bard, finally giving up and wrapping an arm around him with a growl.

“Geralt-” Jaskier began.

“I’m beginning to think those men had the right idea in gagging you,” Geralt said. “Makes a far more pleasant companion.”

“That’s _really_ not funny,” Jaskier said. At least his speaking ability seemed to be returning. 

“Yeah. Probably not.” He fell silent for a moment, focusing on steering Roach out of the clearing. Jaskier was still gasping and sobbing, although clearly trying to keep his voice down.

“What do you want me to say?” Geralt asked abruptly. “I don’t have emotions,” he lied. “What do humans say in these situations?”

“I don’t know,” Jaskier said quietly. He leaned into Geralt, shaking. “I- I don’t-”

“Quiet,” Geralt said. Then he stopped, made an effort to soften his voice, and said, “You don’t have to say anything. But, if chattering helps, I’ll manage.”

“I don’t know what helps.”

“Finding the Ealdorman and his friend might,” Geralt suggested.

Jaskier shook his head. “I just want this to be over.”

“Think of it like one of your ballads,” the Witcher suggested. “The valiant hero must suffer before getting- oh, I don’t know - a fair maiden, or something.”

“Please stop,” Jaskier said with a soft snort. “You are hopeless at this.”

They rode in silence after that, the stillness only punctuated by Jaskier’s occasional gasps or grunts. Geralt didn’t mention the sounds in the forest or the feeling that something inhuman was out there. Jaskier would panic if he realized that monsters were around them. He also didn’t mention the abandoned house and tried not to think on why the owners had left it.

Ahead of them, where only a few days earlier Geralt had crossed a wooden bridge, there was only a bubbling river. “The bridge is out.”

“What?” Jaskier struggled to sit up, turning to look at the sunken bridge with fright. “How-”

“Rained last night. Must have been the final straw.” Geralt glanced both ways down the river, then shook his head. “The nearest crossing is hours out of our way.”

Jaskier shivered. “I- I can’t-”

“I know.” Geralt turned Roach without a word, hurrying the horse back to the abandoned house they’d passed before. “What-” Jaskier began.

Geralt swung from the saddle and pulled the bard with him. “We’ll stay here,” he said. “Tomorrow we can go for help.”


	2. Chapter 2

He carried Jaskier inside the dilapidated house, sitting him on the table. Then he went outside to settle Roach down for the night.

When he returned, Jaskier was cramming a handkerchief down his trousers. Without thinking, Geralt stepped forward, grabbing the bard’s legs and pulling them apart, trying to look at his wounds.

Jaskier screamed.

“Shit.” Geralt stepped back. “Jaskier I-”

“What was that? What were you doing?”

Geralt growled. “Damn it! I don’t know what I can do to help!”

“I don’t either!” Jaskier shouted back. The bard swallowed, looking away. “Give me a minute.”

The Witcher nodded and strode away to investigate the house. There wasn’t much left, whoever had fled hadn’t left much behind. A few wine bottles still sat on shelves in the kitchen where utensils were scattered about. Geralt glanced at the chairs, then quickly made the decision that they would be far more useful in pieces.

When he kicked the chair, he heard Jaskier yelp. “Geralt!”

He grabbed the parts and stomped back into the main room, dropping them by the empty fireplace. “Wood,” he said simply. He started the fire with a Sign, then turned back to Jaskier, sitting on the table with his knees to his chest. “I’m not bleeding anymore.”

“You’re certain?” He wrinkled his nose. “You still smell like piss and blood.”

Jaskier looked away, his face flushing red. “I-”

“I can’t say I blame you,” Geralt added quickly. “Pissing your trousers isn’t always-”

“Geralt? Please shut up.” `

Geralt nodded and sat on the edge of the table cautiously, as far from Jaskier as he could be. “Are you alright?” he asked.

“No,” Jaskier snapped. “I had a table leg shoved up my ass and someone tried to rip off my balls.”

“Well,” Geralt said. “You’d get in a lot more trouble without-”

“Geralt don’t,” Jaskier whispered. “Please, just- stop.”

The Witcher nodded, falling silent. Jaskier stared into the fire in silence for a while, then said, “I need a favor.”

“Anything,” Geralt promised.

“It’s a rather big favor,” he said nervously. 

“A bigger favor than going to Pavetta’s Betrothal?”

Jaskier swallowed. “I might still be bleeding.”

“I can’t tell if the blood smells fresh or not,” the Witcher said. “It takes a few hours for the smell to turn stale.”

“I need- well, I mean-I thought-” Jaskier pulled at his hair. “Can you check?”

Geralt shrugged. “Last time I tried you kicked me.”

“I need a warning!” Jaskier cried, throwing up his hands. “I- I- Geralt I don’t know what to do.”

Geralt stood, giving Jaskier a wide berth. “It would be best if you could lean over the table,” he said, trying to make his voice gentle. It wasn’t a tone that came easily to him, but he did his best, trying to soften his face as well.

Whether it worked or not, Jaskier seemed to understand, slipping off the table, and holding himself up with his hands. But as soon as Geralt reached for his trousers, a shiver ran through him.

“Damn it Jaskier!” Geralt snarled. “I’m trying to help!”

“I know,” the bard said. “Geralt, I know but-” he swallowed. “I can’t-” His chest was heaving, his eyes wide.

Geralt stepped away. “Stay.” He returned to the kitchen, grabbing one of the bottles of wine and pulling the cork out. A quick sniff revealed it to be perfectly drinkable.

Back at the table, Jaskier was looking paler by the moment. “What-”

“Drink.”

He gulped the wine in only a few swallows, then leaned his head back, closing his eyes. “Geralt I-”

“Do you trust me?” he asked abruptly.

“Of course!”

“You thought I would leave you,” Geralt said softly. “In the clearing. You-”

“I was terrified,” Jaskier said, squeezing his eyes shut. “Gods, Geralt, I- I thought I was going to die there. If you hadn’t come-”

“Jaskier-”

“They were going to cut off my cock and shove it up my own ass!”

“I doubt that,” Geralt said.

“What-”

“It’s nearly impossible to shove something flaccid up your anus.”

“Damn it, Geralt! That’s not helping!” Jaskier let out a soft laugh. “You really have no idea what to say, do you?” he asked, shaking his head.

“Give me something to stab, and I’m fine,” Geralt said. “But this? Hell, Jaskier, I don’t stick around after I’ve bedded a woman, let alone-” he shrugged, falling silent before he said anything else stupid.

“Get me another wine,” Jaskier said. “And then- I’m ready. I’m ready now. Save the wine.”

He dropped his breeched and turned quickly, squeezing his eyes shut and leaning against the table. “Geralt?” he asked sharply.

“I’m going to fetch water from the well. You’re too dirty to tell.”

He hurried outside filling a bucket, and darted back inside, taking the handkerchief Jaskier had crammed down his pants earlier and dipping it in the water. The bard’s shoulders were heaving, his body shaking as he tried to stay still.

The blood on his thighs had mixed with the dirt he’d been thrown into, leaving a mess that made it impossible to tell if Jaskier was still bleeding or not. He dampened the cloth, then pressed it against Jaskier’s legs, wiping away the dried blood carefully. The minstrel swore and cursed but stayed still, not fighting as Geralt cleaned him.

“I can’t believe this,” the bard said abruptly. “I’ve not had anyone cleaning my bottom since I was a child.”

“Pretend I’m your father then, if that helps.”

Jaskier shook his head. “That most certainly does not help, Geralt!”

Geralt paused. The bard hadn’t ever mentioned his family, not in all the years they’d known each other. He was vaguely aware that Jaskier was a noble of some sort, but that was the extent of his knowledge.

“Why not?” he asked. A part of it was honest interest in his companion, but a part of it was simply knowing that if he kept Jaskier talking, the other would be less focused on his pain and discomfort.

“My father caught me with a girl once - we were only children! Just kissing and being foolish - he switched me and made me stand in the main hall, naked, for the rest of the afternoon.”

“Sounds awful,” Geralt said.

“It was.”

Geralt pushed himself to his feet. “I don’t think you’re bleeding anymore, but you will need fresh pants.”

Jaskier nodded, slipping out of the ones he had been wearing and letting Geralt dig into his bag, handing him the first pair of pants he found. “I- I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You don’t,” Geralt said, sinking to the ground, preparing to meditate. “Just get some sleep. We’ll find another town in the morning. I’ll keep watch.”


	3. Chapter 3

Jaskier slept fitfully, wrapped in Geralt’s cloak. Each time he would start to wake, mumbling and whining, Geralt would reach out, pat his shoulder, and return to his meditation. Each time, he moved slightly closer to Geralt.

By the time the sun rose outside, Jaskier’s head was on Geralt’s lap.

The Witcher stepped away from him, wanting to get out of the room before he awoke and realized how close they’d been, but when he moved away, Jaskier shifted. “Geralt?” he asked sleepily, just as the Witcher reached the door.

“I’m checking on Roach,” he lied, glancing outside to see that the mare was still there, then turning back to his friend.

He barely had any supplies with him, he’d been planning to replenish them the day before, but what little food he had, he passed to Jaskier. The bard ate greedily, still curled in the cloak.

“How do you feel?”

“Terrible,” Jaskier said with a sniff. “Geralt I don’t want to see a doctor-”

“You need-”

“No! I don’t want touched! Not again! Not ever!”

“I’m not a healer Jaskier! You need someone who can help you, damn it!”

The bard only shook his head sadly, then looked away.

Geralt gathered their belongings from the hut, strapping them back onto Roach, then he stepped back to Jaskier, sighing. “We should go.”

“We should,” the bard agreed.

“We’re low on supplies, when we reach the town-” Geralt grit his teeth “-then we’ll decide what to do.”

Jaskier only nodded, still unnaturally silent. Geralt helped him to stand, carefully guiding him back out of the house, lifting him into the saddle. Jaskier winced, but said nothing. Geralt swung up behind him, then grabbed the reins, holding the bard steady so he wouldn’t slip off.

“Well,” Geralt said gruffly. “At least it’s your turn to be up to your knees in shit.”

Jaskier snorted. “And I’m still the one shoveling.”

Geralt chewed on his lip, irritated at how worried he felt. “I didn’t mean it,” he said softly.

“I know,” Jaskier promised. He winced, then said, “But if you’d like to truly earn my forgiveness-”

“What?”

“Wine?”

Geralt dug in his pack, pulling out a bottle he’d taken from the house they’d stayed in, and handed it to the bard.

Jaskier pulled out the cork and sipped slowly as they rode, still wincing at every bump.

“Novigrad isn’t far,” Geralt said. “They’d have a nicer inn than any I’ve stayed at in a long time-”

“Can we afford that?” Jaskier sounded hopeful, but clearly wasn’t trying to sound too interested, in case it fell through.

“I had a good contract.” In truth, he’d barely been spending any of his money. Without Jaskier, he saw no point in staying in inns or spending on good food or drink. He hunted and foraged for what he needed, and slept under the stars. He’d managed to save up a lot that way.

The bard nodded. “I- We could.”

“It’s settled.”

The companions barely spoke as they rode, although it was clear they still had much to talk about. Geralt was more interested in keeping Jaskier alive than keeping him entertained. Surprisingly, the bard didn’t reach for his lute, instead dozing against Geralt’s chest, only occasionally sitting up and looking around.

They rode through the night, Geralt promising Roach oats and a nice stable as an apology, and by dawn, Novigrad was on the horizon. Jaskier looked up and blinked weakly, yawning. “Oh, I hope there’s food,” he said.

Geralt snorted.

He dismounted, not wanting to be seen practically cradling Jaskier, and helped the bard to move so that he was sitting astride. Leading them through town, he finally found an inn that he’d stayed in before, and purchased a room for several nights. He didn't bring up the idea of a doctor, remembering Jaskier's evident distress. 

Jaskier needed help to limp up the stairs, and he stayed long enough to get the bard into a tub of water, trying not to notice how he moaned and whined when his wounded ass touched the water, then Geralt slipped away, promising to return. 

After checking in on Roach, seeing that she’d gotten her promised reward, he found an apothecary. If taking Jaskier to a healer was out of the question, he'd have to make due himself. Unfortunately, treating mortals was outside of his comfort zone. 

“My companion is wounded,” he said.

She looked at him expectantly. When he offered no further information, she said, “I cannot treat unknown symptoms.”

Geralt hadn’t thought through the full story, hadn’t made any plans for what he was going to say. “He’s a bit touched in the head,” he lied, tapping his finger against the side of his white hair. “Took on a dare to shove a table leg up his ass.”

The apothecary hid a laugh behind her hand. At least she seemed to have believed the lie, it was easier than saying the truth out loud. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s only that my son tried something similar once. It seems all young boys want to try foolish things these days.”

“Oh, he’s not my-”

“I know Witchers are sterile,” she said. “I merely thought he must be your ward.”

“Something like that,” Geralt muttered, resisting the urge to hide his face in his hands. “Babysitter could be more apt.” If Jaskier were there, the bard would kill him. Then, to change the subject, he asked, “What did you do for your son?”

“His father switched him,” she said. “He’s never done it since.”

“He’s bleeding,” Geralt growled. “Or he was. The bleeding has stopped, but-” he waved his hands. “He can’t sit.”

She seemed to slide back to being a professional once again, no longer a reminiscing mother as she asked, “Internally or externally-”

“Ah….” He could only shrug.

“You don’t know?”

“Should I have put my hand up his ass?” He folded his arms over his chest, glaring at her.

She seemed unaffected, simply nodding and searching through her wares until she found a small tub. “Cream. Apply it internally and externally.”

“He can do it himself,” Geralt grumbled, more to himself than to her. Suddenly, switching Jaskier was slightly more tempting, if only so he wouldn’t go fooling around with girls and getting himself in trouble again.

Then he remembered his friend’s tearstained face and swallowed his irritation. “Thank you.”

She nodded, then placed a linen pouch on the counter. “And you’ll want this as well. Brew it into a tea and have him drink it when he eats.”

Geralt took the last pouch, lifting it and sniffing it. “Buckthorn.”

“It will help with relieving himself.”

Geralt almost couldn’t wait to see the look on Jaskier’s face when he told the bard to take a laxative.

“I’ll tell him,” he muttered, pulling his coin pouch from his pocket to pay her, then making a break for the door.

“Master Witcher,” she called.

Geralt stopped, turning to look back at the woman. “If someone’s attacked him, you should stay with him for a few days at least. To calm him.”

“Who said anything about an attack?”

“Your face.” She smiled. “I never believed Witchers were emotionless, but now I can be certain.” He ducked out the door, and she called after him, “If he worsens, bring him to me!”


	4. Chapter 4

Jaskier was still soaking in the tub and barely glanced up as Geralt entered the room. “I’m starting to think I’ve got it all wrong,” he said brightly. “Here I thought I should be an adventurer, when what I ought to be doing, is staying here and letting you bring the stories to me.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “You’d have half the men in town after you in a week.”

Jaskier winced and he immediately regretted the jest, but before he could correct himself, the bard said, “You’re most likely right about that, you know.”

Geralt declined to comment, instead pulling over a chair and sitting it beside the tub, dropping down beside Jaskier. “I brought medicine,” he said.

The bard nodded, closing his eyes and yawning. “I- Geralt, I can’t say this enough- but, if it were for you- I cannot begin-”

“I know,” Geralt said. “Without me, you’d be dead in a ditch by now. Several times over.”

Jaskier snorted, sinking almost all the way under the water so that only his head showed. “I would be,” he agreed.

He didn’t seem to want to get out of the tub, but after a short while, the water had cooled, and he was forced to abandon it, letting Geralt help him to crawl out, wrapping him in a clean set of clothes. For once, it seemed to be a good thing that Jaskier carried multiple outfits.

The bard was less than pleased when Geralt gave him the cream he’d purchased and told him to apply it, but a sharp look from the Witcher and a snarl of “shall I hold you down and put it on?” had him hurrying to do as he was told.

Geralt gave him his privacy, letting Jaskier lean against the tub, and wandering back into the main room. A part of him, a part he’d been learning to ignore, told him that he’d done enough, that he’d gotten Jaskier to somewhere he’d be safe, and that he could leave. The bard could take care of himself, and he knew people in every city on the continent.

But he couldn’t.

Jaskier knew people, sure, but who, other than Geralt, could he trust? And if he left him now, people would be right if they called him a heartless monster.

But most of all, he couldn’t get the sight of him, sitting on the ground, crying for help in the woods, out of his face. If he left, he would never forgive himself.

As if on cue, he heard the sound of footsteps and a weak voice asking, “Geralt? Where’d you go?”

If possible, he felt even worse about trying to abandon his friend.

“Over here, you blind fool,” he said, although the insult lacked venom. Judging by his footsteps, Jaskier was still limping, although he was beginning to think he was moving slowly out of fear of tearing open his wounds again.

“I- I was going to go to bed.”

Geralt turned to face him finally. “Then go to bed,” he said. “I’m not your nanny.”

“Are- are you planning to stay?” Jaskier was wringing his hands, chewing his lip, staring at Geralt as though the Witcher might vanish if he closed his eyes. “I mean- I know you don’t stay in one place for long, I just- well, if you’re not going to be here when I wake, I’d like to know in advance-”

“I’ll be here.” He pushed Jaskier toward the bed. "I'll fetch food in a few hours, but other than that, I'm looking forward to a rest." He wasn't really, but the lie seemed kind. 

"Oh. Will you-" 

"I'll wake you when I get food." 

Jaskier smiled. "Thank you, Geralt."


	5. Chapter 5

Jaskier barely slept.

He woke up almost constantly, turning to make sure that Geralt was still there or to whimper and clutch at his blankets. Geralt didn’t move from his post by the bed, staring straight ahead, his eyes fixed on a point in the darkness, as though the plank stretch of wall would solve all his problems.

When morning finally arrived, Jaskier gave up any pretense of trying to sleep, crawled out of bed, and said, “I want to go on a walk.”

“Can you walk?”

“I- I think.”

Geralt only grunted in response.

Jaskier was still limping, and although Geralt was tempted to put an arm around him for support, something told him that Jaskier wanted the independence of walking on his own. As much as the bard seemed to enjoy being taken care of, it seemed he’d finally reached his limit.

But their walk was slow going, ambling down the stairs and out of the inn. Jaskier winced slightly at the bright sunlight, covering his eyes almost instinctively. Geralt was content to follow him like an angry shadow, never interfering, letting Jaskier go where he pleased, but always just a step behind him.

Finally, Jaskier stopped, turning to look at him. “What?” he demanded.

“You thought I was going to leave you.”

The bard shrugged. “You don’t stay in one place-”

“In the woods. When I found you.”

“We’ve already had this conversation-”

“And again last night.” His tone was accusatory.

“Because that’s how you deal with emotions!” Everyone else on the street was suddenly giving them a wide berth, nonchalantly walking to the other side of the road to do their errands. “Because you’re Geralt of fucking Rivia and you think you don’t need anyone!”

“I don’t,” he said gruffly. “I can live without you. I’ve done it before.” But before the hurt look can truly settle onto Jaskier’s face he adds, “But I don’t _want_ to.”

For a moment, Jaskier didn’t say anything, then he laughed. “Is this your way of asking me to travel with you again?”

Geralt was quick to mutter, “You’re still hurt.”

“Because fuck yes, take me with you.” Jaskier was grinning and, against his wishes, Geralt felt a smile settle over his own face as well.

“Fine,” he muttered. “I want you to come.”

Jaskier grabbed his arm, leaning against him. “Good,” he said. “Because I’m not certain I can walk back to the inn by myself right now.”

Geralt nodded, looping an arm around his waist. “You need to eat,” he said as they started back to the inn. “And-”

“Yes, the wonderful fucking laxative you bought me,” Jaskier muttered his face flushing red. “How could I forget?”

“You were hoping I’d forgotten.”

“Maybe.”

The Witcher snorted. “Just promise me something.”

“As long as it’s not celibacy.”

“Try to stay out of trouble.”

“I do try! It’s not my fault it doesn’t work!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve had this fic on the backburner for a while, but I decided to finish it up for Geraskier Week Day Three: Protection.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to [Follow me on Tumblr](https://sunflowersupremes.tumblr.com/). I accept prompts, fangirling, and accusations of character abuse. 
> 
> All content related to The Butcher of the Backwoods can be found [here](https://sunflowersupremes.tumblr.com/tagged/story%3A-the-butcher-of-the-backwoods)


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